


You Are Enough

by ExploretheEcccentricities



Category: Rapunzel's Tangled Adventure (Cartoon)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, Grammar is neglected because character panics A LOT, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Varian's POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2020-07-11
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:54:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,253
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202005
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ExploretheEcccentricities/pseuds/ExploretheEcccentricities
Summary: Varian adjusts to life after prison.
Relationships: Quirin & Varian (Disney)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 140





	You Are Enough

**Author's Note:**

> Dumb Me: I bet you can't write a piece under 4,000 words with angst, fluff, hurt AND comfort while also venting about how you're feeling.  
> Regular Me: ... _You dare challenge me, you absolute train wreck. ___

“It’s too much.” Varian says, staring down at the bowl of soup. Its smell is heavenly and its texture impeccable, drifting into his nostrils and awakening an aching stir of yearning he never knew he still possessed.

“It’s less than before.” Dad tries to supply, twirling his spoon in his own bowl, fixing him with a gentle, concerned look from where he sits across the table.

“But I can’t eat it.” Varian insists, even as his stomach growls stubbornly and his mouth waters. It was still getting used to that. He had tried to convince Dad that he had already eaten-and he had become accustomed to eating one meal of gruel a day and that was sufficient enough for him, it honestly was. There was no point in giving him more than he needed-his stomach only ever growled if he forgot his one meal, and even then, it had learned to become docile and submissive, still and silent after months of being unheard and unfilled.

But Dad has none of it, pushing bowl after bowl of some fruit or some bread or some broth his way and telling him to eat whenever he felt he could. And sure enough, his stomach prods at him, begging him to allow it more, hope for more.

“You need to eat, Varian.” Dad simply says, gently yet encouragingly. “Just as much as you feel you can, as slow as you need to. We’re trying a little more every time, remember?”

Varian hesitantly scoops a spoonful and pushes it into his mouth, feeling it seep onto his tongue and run down his throat. Before he knows it, he is automatically shoveling in spoonful after spoonful on instinct, savoring every last drop of the soup.

“Easy now, son. You need to eat slower-“ He hears Dad try to warn, but his shrinking patience and growing appetite and seduced tongue simply doesn’t care. His stomach sings and swoons heartily as it is fed properly for more than once a day-and then sinks as it struggles to cope with the new burden, twisting and churning in an unsettling motion.

Heart leaping into his throat along with something else, Varian leaps to his feet and pushes away the bowl as though it singes him, legs carrying him to the bathroom just in time for him to begin gagging and retching into the sink, his eyes blurring and throat burning incessantly as his stomach pushes back everything he has tried to coax into eating throughout the day, punishing his tongue and throat for complying by filling it with the rancid, repugnant taste.

He is left gasping for breath, choking on his own tears as his trembling hands desperately scramble to snatch at the tissues and turn on the faucet. He feels feverish, awfully depleted and even more weakened than before and-sure enough, his stomach is silent, still once more.

Varian throws water at his face once, twice, before his shaky legs carry him out of the room and to his chair, sinking to his knees and throwing himself at the seat of it as his head rests against the edge and his arms hang limply to his sides in the awkward position.

Empty, breathless sobs wrench their way out of his throat as he mourns over another day of not growing, another day of not getting better, another day of not improving.

A careful, steady hand rests on his head, running and pressing strong fingers against the knots in his shoulders and running them down his back in rhythmic, repeated motions. He feels Dad’s cheek press against his head, waiting until his sobs subside. “Feeling better?” Dad finally asks, the concern in his voice evident as he threads his fingers through his hair.

Varian shakes his head, not lifting his head until he feels Dad tapping his shoulder to hand him another tissue.

“I’m sorry.” Varian sniffles honestly.

Dad cups his cheek, turning his face towards him and pinning him with his soft brown orbs, his patient and gentle gaze as they crawl over the way Varian scrunches his face at the hidden pains, the way he closes his eyes in shame. “Don’t be sorry.”

“Don’t go. Please don’t go.” Varian weakly splutters, still holding the tissue desperately to his face and closing his eyes.

Dad doesn’t reply, opting to press the palm of his hand against his sweaty forehead and swipe away the hair matted to it as he pulls Varian’s head back to rest against his own neck. Pressing a kiss to the crown of his head, Dad cradles his wrists in his hand, occasionally running his thumb over his knuckles.

And Dad holds him, Dad loves him, Dad stays.

…

“It’s too dark.” Varian whispers, staring up at where he thinks the window is.

Quirin lifts his head from where he had been drifting off to sleep, glancing towards the small shutters of the window he opened a few hours ago. “It’s brighter than before.” He supplies.

“But I can’t sleep.” Varian insists, with his head pounding and his eyes drooping.

“You need to sleep, Varian.” Dad simply says, rubbing his shoulder and kissing his temple before pulling away and allowing him his own space. “Would you like to get your glowing vials?”

Varian shakes his head even if he knows Dad can’t see it. He wouldn’t dare invent so soon-not yet. He lies there, staring at the ceiling and yet unable to sleep. Perhaps an hour or so passes before he speaks again.

“Dad?”

There is no answer.

Shooting straight up so that he sits on the bed, Varian looks around frantically, surrounding by pitch darkness. Not waiting for another moment, Varian stumbles towards the door. He has to go to the lab. He has to check on Dad. Dad could be in trouble, Dad could be in amber, Dad could- “Dad?” He asks again, his voice trembling as the panic surges through him in an overwhelming realization that he is indeed alone. He fumbles helplessly in the dark, and there is nothing to hold onto, and he can’t see- _it’s so cold_ \- his legs are buckling- and he is going to fall here, in darkness, and _no one is going to come looking for him_ -now that Dad is gone, no one has to care about him anymore. “Dad.” Varian croaks pleadingly, his small voice drifting off into the abyss of nothingness as he wavers on the edge of sinking into the blanket of blackness that surrounds him in a frigid suspension of silence, curling up on the floor and weeping.

“Varian?” He hears the familiar voice call out, heightened with distress, before he feels something large snake around his waist. Shrieking, heart thundering in his ears as he scrambles and writhes in the dark, Varian’s mind jumps to the worst, and he presses his hands against his attacker-a guard, no doubt. _They’ve come for him, they’re going to beat him because he fought back last time_ -

“Sh, no, no, son.” He hears the voice whisper to him, deep and familiar and close to his ear. “It’s me. Varian, it’s me.” Varian stretches his arm out, trying to pat and feel his way to what he thinks is his father behind him, but he finds the effort futile when he feels a careful hand capture his own misguided one, his fingers being enclosed as his knuckles are pressed against warm lips. The familiar arms engulf him, clutching him in an inescapable embrace.

“Where were you running off to, silly boy?” His father breathes, wounding his arms around him tighter as he brings up a hand to press his head against his chest. Despite the calm demeanour of his voice, Varian listens to the unhappy heart under his cheek, the panic and fear in the words muddling the affection and gentleness they were meant to have held.

“Why did you leave?” Varian instead asks accusingly, though the sharp edge he wants to deliver is softened as he sniffles and whimpers between sobs. “Why did you try to _leave_ me?”

A few minutes pass before he hears an answer. “Varian, I never left.” Dad patiently replies, the panic of earlier having vanished and the angry heart pacified. “I was sleeping with _you_ , in your room. Remember?”

Varian shakes his head rigorously even though he remembers now, even as his cheeks flush in shame and his mind scrambles for an excuse. He doesn’t have to, before Dad speaks again.

“Feeling better?” Dad whispers to him, bringing his knuckles to his lips again.

Varian shakes his head. “I’m sorry.” Varian settles on mumbling when he is unable to find the voice that had so readily compelled to leave into this dark world, leave the warmth and safety of his father to go looking for help when a part of him knew he wouldn’t find it- _no one could help him_.

Dad tightens his hold, and his hand comes to rest at his cheek, his fingers cupping behind his ear as they stroke away the hair still matted with sweat, his thumb caressing away his tears as they leak from the corners of his eyes and trickle down his cheeks. “Don’t be sorry.”

“Don’t go. Please don’t go.” Varian begs, even as Dad carries him back to his room and lies down next to him again, enveloping him in his sturdy arms and crushing him to his chest and whispering sweet nothings into his broken heart even as it shutters off to his first dreamless sleep in ages.

And Dad holds him, Dad loves him, Dad stays.

…

“It’s too big.” Varian criticizes from where he stares at the mirror. Behind him, the tailor tuts and bustles about, grabbing pins here and measuring tapes there. The clothes would look fine, if only they weren’t for him. He frowns at himself with self-contempt, feeling utter disgust overwhelm him at how the smooth, long sleeves hang unceremoniously over his short arms, how the otherwise perfect middle of the crisp off-white shirt bags around his skeleton-like waist. Scrutinizing himself, he realizes he-he’s so _ugly_. He’s so ugly, and Dad must be as truly disgusted as him, pitying him enough to run fingers along his grimy hair or wrap an arm around his scrawny shoulders.

“It’s smaller than before.” Dad supplies, fingers drumming against the corners of a clothes box in thought as his eyes run over the different garments and garters.

“I can’t wear this.” Varian tries again, feigning annoyance when the tailor gives him a withering glare.

“You need new clothes, Varian.” Dad simply says, smiling to himself when he picks up something. “Hold still, will you?”

Varian draws his gaze away from the mirror and observes his father fold his sleeves and secure the sleeve garters around his elbows, before carefully buttoning up a maroon vest around his torso.

He smiles at his work, places his hands on his shoulders and allowing Varian to stare back at himself in the mirror. “Feeling better?”

It-it certainly _looked_ better. It hid away his freakishly thin torso and almost made him look…decent. Shaking his head, Varian forces a smile in return, choosing instead to stare at the sickly pale paste that was his skin, the way it shrunk along his windpipe, how his eyes sparkled with hidden tears as his father’s sparkled with pride. He’s so _ugly_ …

Dad pats his shoulder and turns to the tailor. “I think that will be all. If you can just tell me where to make the purchase, Varian can stay here and you can make your final measurements.”

“No!” Varian’s mind whirs with panic, and his hand lashes out before he can think anything else, latching tightly onto his father’s arm. “Don’t go. Please, don’t go.”

Dad’s other hand comes up and clutches the top of his own-at first, Varian fears he is going to pry it off. But he pats it instead, telling the confused tailor to take his purchase here and fussing over his son’s slouched posture instead.

And Dad holds him, Dad loves him, Dad stays.

…

“It’s my fault.” Varian sobs from where he kneels next to his latest mess. He is no longer in the kitchen, baking with his father and raccoon. He is at the palace kitchens, straining under the scrutinizing glares and unforgiving whispers and unhesitating whip of a guard who had discovered his mess-he hadn't been making it right, he hadn't cleaned it right, _why can't you do anything right?_

“You need to breathe, Varian.” His father gently instructs from where he kneels next to him, not allowing the panic in his eyes to bleed into his voice, one hand resting its palm against his back.“It’s just a little spill. We can fix this-No, no, don’t do that-“ He chides when Varian blindly reaches his bare hands towards the broken shards of glass. “Just breathe for me, son.”

“No!” Varian sobs yet again, wrenching his hands away from his father’s well-meaning grasp and instead pressing them up against his ears, his fingers infuriately drilling into his scalp.

He-he is so _sick_ of it all. Sick of needing, sick of being, sick of feeling. So-so sick of failing. So sick of having to fail when he has to do things he needs, so sick of needing to fail. So sick of feeling sick.

He screws his eyes shut as tight as possible, trying to lock away the sight of his latest failure, lock away the sound of his father talking to him about the failure, lock away the breaths that will condemn him to a life of more of these failures. _He is a failure_. “No, no, no!”

“Oh Varian.” He hears Dad sigh breathlessly as he tries to pry away his small hands so that his smooth words, coaxes and lies can slither into his ears, set his heart aflame with some feeble and fleeting hope that will die the next time he attempts to fulfill a simple need. “It’s going to be okay. You’re going to make yourself sick.”

“I _am_ sick!” Varian screams at him in a debilitating bout of rage as he shudders and whimpers for breath, the anger becoming more agonizing as it hammers into his heart and claws at his shrunken stomach. Why couldn’t Dad see? He was sick, and broken, and hurt, and his dad had to suffer with it. “It’s never going to be okay! I’m never going to feel better!”

For all of his efforts, all of the ways he tries to avoid mirrors and mealtimes and running around at night, today was still another day of not improving, of not growing, of not getting better. He’s so sick of being ugly, he’s so sick of being scared, he’s so sick of being _him_.

“Son-”

“I can’t _do_ it. I-I can’t do _anything_ right. And I can’t do more, either.” Varian cuts him off before he can give him the empty reassurances, the vision of his father in front of him blurred beyond recogition even as he squints and glares through it all. “I’m-I’m _never_ going to get better!” Saying it hits him with the realisation-he has doomed himself. He, and his cowardice, and his weakness, and his ugliness-he has condemned himself and his father to forever living this way, forever feeling this way. He was holding himself back-he had ruined himself, and now he couldn’t even eat right, sleep right, enjoy one simple evening with his father without ruining _everything_.

“But you _are_ getting better, don’t you see? We’re getting better. We’re trying. What you’ve been pushing yourself to do is more than enough.” Dad holds him firmly by the shoulders, leaning forward and locking their eyes. “Son, you _are_ enough.”

The words shock him, jar him from where they sink into his troubled mind and engrave themselves amongst the storm of doubts and fears. _You are enough_. Did Dad dare to suggest that failing to stomach more than one meal a day was enough? Did Dad really think that clutching onto his arm as he slept was enough? Was he truly _enough_ , to be able to look himself in the mirror without disgust? Was he enough, to be able to fit into clothes that would be able to fit children half as old as him? Was he enough, sitting here weeping and whining when he had condemned his father to coddle him and cater to his every unnecessary need?

“If I was enough, you wouldn’t have to be here to look after me.” Varian points out.

Dad presses his lips into a thin line. “Being enough shouldn’t mean you must be alone. And I’m-“ His breath hitches, and he carefully withdraws his hands as they fold onto himself, clasping togetherat his heart as though the organ threatens to burst from his chest. Looking up, Varian finds himself bewildered at seeing tears glistening in his eyes. “I’m _sorry_ I left you alone, son. But I’m trying now too, aren’t I?” Varian watches the tears slowly trickle down his father’s flushed cheeks as the man leans forward, his eyes drilling into his own as though pleading and rummaging for the answer he seeks. “I’m enough too, aren’t I?”

Staring back at the man whose shoulder he has been weeping on every night for the past month, the man who had so easily encouraged him to boldly rebel against his own demons, _the man who had been as unsure and insecure as him all along_ , Varian blinks and nods for the first time in a long time.

He watches the despair in his father’s eyes wean away, blustering with hope and blossoming into a small, relieved smile as the last of his tears seep away. “Don’t lose hope. Please, don’t you _ever_ lose hope.” Dad begs, and Varian leans forward, throwing his arms around his neck and pressing his forehead against his cheek. They remain like this for a while, and Varian relishes in feeling whole and full and dare he say a little more _beautiful_ knowing his father is fine with _enough_ , however long it will take them to get better. He feels...somewhat less tired, less sick, less hopeless, heart soaring with a newfound courage even as his head pounds and his nose runs and his throat aches.

Dad pulls away, carefully maneuvering him away from the mess on the floor. “Now, _we_ are going to clean this up together, and get that poor little critter of yours off of the counter.” At Dad’s words, Varian looks up and smiles despite himself when he finds a terrified Ruddiger clinging to the kitchen counter. “ _We_ are going to finish making those cookies together, _we_ are going to eat them together, and _we_ are going to sleep early today because _we_ need to get your new clothes from the tailor tomorrow. Yes?”

Varian nods again, helping Dad up before prying Ruddiger off of his perch. Wiping at his face, Varian rubs his hands against his apron before he feels two arms encompass him from behind, holding him as surely and securely as they always had.

“Feeling better?” Dad asks, despite the hidden sorrow still lucid in his eyes.

Holding back onto his hands with as much strength as he can muster, leaning his head back and staring at the hopeful eyes, Varian replies. “Not yet, but I’m feeling good enough. Better than before.”

And Varian knows it will be enough, for until he feels better, Dad will hold him, Dad will love him, Dad will stay.

**Author's Note:**

> ...Too much?


End file.
